What We See
by 96 Hubbles
Summary: Hogan considers the ramifications of taking away something very important from his men.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: No ownership of Hogan's Heroes or its characters is implied. The text is in no way intended to reflect on the work of others and is not for profit.

**What We See**

Chapter 1

It was a little past four in the morning, the tunnels were empty, and sitting by himself in the radio room, Colonel Robert E. Hogan of the US Army Air Force found himself once again reflecting on just how many problems continued to come up in his life that had never been covered in Command training.

However, discovering that he was as nosy as a frustrated spinster let loose in a rival's bedroom, well now, that was one he _really _hadn't seen coming.

_It's a real danger, _he insisted to himself, just as he had for most of that day. But the lie - or half truth anyway - was getting old.

_So why didn't you destroy it the minute you got it? _a pesky voice from the back of his brain asked.

He didn't have an answer and it annoyed him. It annoyed him even more to realize that keeping the Krauts from getting their hands on the thing was not the whole reason he'd come skulking down into the tunnels at this time of the night. He felt like an adolescent boy furtively sneaking a peek at his father's girlie magazines, only without the rewarding thrill or titillation. All _he _felt was a sort of sleazy embarrassment, not to mention an unwelcome twinge of shame at the thought that he might be hurting one of his men.

_So WHY am I doing this? _he wondered. _I don't want to look at it. I really don't. There's nothing stopping me from getting rid of it right now._

But no, if it was really nothing more than simple voyeurism, he would have destroyed it the minute he had gotten it. There was something more serious to this, even if he was damned if he knew what it was. So now he was sitting here in the early hours of the morning and staring at the thing and wondering how a bundle of battered and dishevelled looking small notebooks - the kind that kids in school might use for their compositions - could have gotten him into such a quandary.

He grimaced and tapped a stray pencil with his fingers. _Don__'__t do it, _he told himself. _Don__'__t read it. There__'__s not a single, solitary reason that you need to look at it._

Without knowing it, he shifted uncomfortably on his chair. Then, standing up abruptly, he started pacing; this inexplicable hesitation was making him restless - he wasn't a man who was accustomed to being indecisive.

_You told him you wouldn't. Promised him in fact, _a part of him argued.

_I know, _he answered that inner voice, _but…_

_Oh, for Pete's sake, just burn the thing! _his conscience ordered. _Burn it like you said you would. You're going to do it anyway, at least that way you'll have shown him a little respect._

Instead, after grimly pouring himself a cup of coffee and sitting down once more, Hogan opened the bundle and began to read.

----

If it had been one of the others, Hogan considered, he probably wouldn't have caught them and so wouldn't have been in this predicament right now. But Carter - who, God love him, was usually at the center of most of his stickiest problems - hadn't quite been able to wipe the guilty expression off his face in time.

He had come down to the lab to talk to Carter about a special assignment. Carter had enthusiastically started to check for any of the necessary materials he might be lacking and so, while Carter was rummaging through his shelves and humming to himself, he had strolled a few steps over to Carter's workbench to wait. Casually picking up a thick textbook and glancing at the title - _Goodman and Gilman__'__s: The Pharmacological Basis of Therapeutics _- he'd been too busy puzzling over exactly when and where Carter had managed to get this, to do more than catch the messy bundle out of the corner of his eye. (1)

"Writing the Great American novel, Carter?" he asked, not really interested and still leafing through Carter's textbook.

"Huh?" Carter yelped, whipping around so fast that the roll of wire he'd been holding flew out of his hand.

Turning at Carter's sudden panic, Hogan didn't put it together for a second. It was the half second of worried guilt that flitted across the younger man's face however, that gave him the answer. Hogan's gaze shot to the papers and then back to his demolitions man. "Carter…" he began dangerously.

Carter shot around him and awkwardly tried to dart between him and the table. "It's nothing Colonel - honest! Just some equations and notes that I made while I was working on - "

"Carter, you wouldn't be trying to hide those papers if that's all they were."

"Sure I would! I mean, it's all about stuff that didn't work and things that nearly blew up in our faces. Like that one time - " Carter explained in a rush, patently hoping to distract his CO.

Hogan looked at his tech sergeant, who was backed up against his own table, eyes trying nervously to gauge the reaction of the man in front of him. "Carter," he'd interrupted, "Do you somehow_ actually_ believe that I can't tell when you're lying?"

"No sir! I really am telling…uh…well…" Carter protested, still trying to extricate himself, but then his voice trailed off. Hogan could see him realizing the obvious: that his CO would know the truth as soon as he looked.

Hogan felt bad remembering how Carter had stepped out of his way, not meeting his eyes any longer. Reaching out for the slim exercise book laying on top of the bundle, he turned the cover over and peered at the first page for a few moments. It was exactly what instinct had told him it was. "I'm sorry Carter," he said, "but you know that keeping a diary is against regulations."

"I guess so, Colonel."

"That's not me making the rule either, Carter. That's an actual Army regulation. It's for everybody too, not just us." (2)

"Yes sir."

Hogan sighed: Carter really did have a crestfallen face at times. Motioning to Carter for him to sit down on his stool, his mind flashed back on all of the seemingly endless lectures his father had given him over the years. It wasn't until he'd become an officer that he'd really believed what his father had said about not liking it anymore than he did. "Look Carter, you could have put us all in a lot of danger."

"Oh no sir, the Germans wouldn't have found it. I _never_ wrote anything up top! Believe me, I may have done some dumb things, but I'd never do something as dumb as all that! I swear!"

"I do believe you Carter. But keeping the diary down here doesn't mean that it's safe to have it. As tight as we try to keep security, we've had plants in here before. Both Williams and Martin saw the tunnels. So did the man who turned us into Hegel. What if they'd seen one of your books here? They would've had all the proof the Krauts needed to bring in half the German Army. Or what if the Krauts ever caught on and Hochstetter found his way down here? Do you know how much trouble that could cause?"

"But once he's seen the tunnels he'd already have enough on us to get us into trouble! What more is my diary gonna do?"

"It'd put the entire underground in danger for a start, Carter! Any names in there and the Gestapo would have those agents in front of a firing squad within the hour. And one capture usually leads to a whole lot more. Who knows what kind of information that the Krauts might get out of our people! They could get lucky and stumble onto a string of leads that'll take them as far as France and Norway."

"But even if you haven't put any names in Carter, any descriptions of a mission could help them narrow down the suspects. Take that oil refinery we did last week. If the Gestapo learned how we got in, or even just when, they'd have to know that there's only three people who could have helped us. They'd get our agent and, on top of that, more than likely torture the two innocent people in the process!" (3)

"I…I never thought…I mean, I didn't mean to…" Carter mumbled. "Really…I never would've done anything to …"

Hogan sighed again and rubbed his face tiredly; perhaps he was being an alarmist, upsetting Carter when, really, no harm had been done. "Aw hell Carter, I know you didn't. But you have to understand, there are _reasons_ for regulations like these. Even if you wrote about our missions in the most vague and general way possible, there'd still be some danger. If just how much we do outside ever came out, the Krauts wouldn't be able to help figuring out that we need contacts in town. Give'em a few facts and locations to start out with and it wouldn't take long for them to find witnesses. Someone who could've spotted us, or our people, coming and going. Someone who'd be willing to describe us. Not to mention that having written evidence is only going to give the Krauts that much more to work with when they do their questioning."

Carter was staring up at him now, looking positively sick. Hogan felt for him - he knew how badly Carter must be feeling at thought of having put others in danger - but he kept going. "It'd make it easier for them to question you too Carter," he said. "That's why even regular soldiers aren't supposed to write these things. Don't you know that the Germans actually have special units for just this sort of event?" (4)

"Really?" Carter asked.

"Really." Hogan grabbed the first notebook off of Carter's work table and slapped it against his palm. "What if you had written down something a new prisoner had mentioned to you - about his last location or his unit? Or even something second hand: a new man tells you that one of his friends is on a ship guarding a convoy hauling supplies to a location in France. You write it down. But your diary is found and some smart Kraut gets to wondering why supplies are going there. Then he notices other reports of supplies going there. Now he starts paying attention to troop movement - after all, somebody is going to be using all those supplies. So he sees a couple of battalions moving in that general direction and asks himself why. Next thing you know, the Allied super secret sneak attack isn't so secret."

"Jeez Colonel, that's not fair. If that Kraut is so smart, wouldn't all that other stuff tip him off anyway?" Carter protested. But it was without a lot of conviction; Hogan thought that he was only saying it because the weight of what he was telling him was getting to him.

"Maybe, but maybe not. We never know with them what's going to be the vital piece of the puzzle. The point is: keeping a diary is an unnecessary risk. We don't have to _help_ the Germans win, now do we?"

"Yeah…I guess I get what you're saying," Carter said, shoulders slumping.

"Look Carter, you wouldn't believe how cunning the Germans can be. Did you know that they had agents pretending to be priests working the docks in New York and taking "confessions" from merchant seamen? They'd talk with them, pretend to be their pals, offer counselling just like any other priest - all to get information about where they'd been. Then there were other agents who would call up a guy's wife or mother and pretend to be an old buddy in town for the night and looking to get together. He'd throw in a few details and so the guy's Mom wouldn't think anything of it, and then she'd tell him Joe couldn't go out because he'd been shipped off to such and such a place and wouldn't be home for a month. And they're were doing all this back before we were even in the war! So can you imagine what kind of tricks they're pulling now? _Any_ little bit of information can lead to more, Carter."

Hogan placed the notebook back on the table and then leaned back against the counter. He knew Carter had heard enough and that he wouldn't have to keep hammering the point into Carter in order to get him to hand the whole bundle over, but Hogan considered that maybe once his discouraged tech sergeant got over his guilt, and once the fact that nothing bad had actually happened sunk in, that the dangers might pale in Carter's mind. Then he might feel a bit of resentment over the entire episode. Either that, or he might start writing again. "There's another reason too Carter," Hogan continued.

"Aww, come on Colonel, I get it," Carter pleaded. "I won't do it anymore - I promise."

"I know Carter. But I want you to know that it's not just about the safety of the underground or the Krauts getting information about troop movements. I'm worried about you too."

"Me?"

"One of the big reasons the Army forbids everyone from keeping a diary is that they don't want the enemy getting any information about general morale or about that specific man's state of mind. A diary gives them all kinds of things that they can use against us psychologically. And with the situation we're in, that's a threat we need to worry about more than most."

"Gee Colonel, I mostly only wrote about simple stuff. You know, who won the volleyball game, what Lebeau cooked for dinner, stuff like that. What the heck could they use against me?"

"Did you ever write about your friend Charlie? You know, the one you joked hid under his porch for two years to avoid the draft? When Lebeau asked you if it made you angry that you were over here and he wasn't, you said didn't bother you and we believed you. But what if the Germans badgered you with it for days on end, never letting up on the subject? Would you still feel the same then?"

"Well…I don't know," Carter admitted. "I think I'd still okay with it though. Honestly Colonel, I was never mad at Charlie for not wanting to join the Army."

Hogan put a hand on his demolition man's shoulder. "Then how about Mary Jane's Dear John letter?" he asked softly, all the while feeling like a real heel. The way Carter shifted under his hand told him he'd hit a nerve. "I'm sorry for saying that Carter, really. But can you tell me for certain that the Germans couldn't twist that around long enough to upset you to the point where you'd get careless? Not even just for a second?"

"Yeah…I suppose they could," Carter conceded with a hushed voice.

"Don't feel bad Carter. It's the same for everybody. We all have our weak spots: our insecurities, our fears, all the bad things that have happened in our lives. Our worries for the people we care about. The Germans could play on any of those things."

Hogan could see his downcast sergeant turning all of this over in his mind and felt a surge of gratitude when Carter picked up the bundle of notebooks and willingly handed them to him. "Are you going to burn them?" Carter asked him.

"I have to Carter."

"I understand Colonel." Then he looked at Hogan. "You won't read it or anything first though, will you?"

"No Carter," Hogan remembered assuring him then. "Not if you don't want me to."

"No sir. If you're gonna burn it, just burn it. Please don't read it first."

"All right Carter. I won't read it, I promise."

----

Later, as he snuck down to the radio room just before four in the morning, all he could think was, _So much for promises._

* * *

_Author's notes: I would just like to state here, in case any one is wondering, that - other than they share the same idea of the men keeping diaries - this story is in no way connected to "Dear Diary" by wordybirds. It is also not connected to any of my other stories and should be considered a stand alone. _

_1) This is an actual book. There was no real reason to throw it in, but since it fit the time period - it was first published in 1941 - I thought it might be something that Carter would have liked to get his hands on._

_2) According to Richard J. Aldrich in Witness to War: Diaries of the Second World War in Europe and the Middle East : "Most countries made it a punishable offence for anyone in the military to maintain a diary - an offence even more serious if they were performing some kind of special or secret work." Nearly all of the reasons for not keeping a diary that Hogan gives Carter in this chapter were subjects in the forward of this book. That being said, and while I once heard something that suggested that there was an order against it in the American military, I don't know what exactly the actual US Army regulation was, or even if they specifically had one. In any case, there were people in every country who obviously ignored this rule, otherwise how would we have books like Mr. Aldrich's?_

_3) Just to let you know, I've made a lot of references to things that happened in different episodes. However, I'm not going to list them all. So if you recognize something, then it's from show, and if you don't, then assume it's just something - such as this particular event - that I pulled out of the air._

_4) From Witness to War: "All sides set up special units in an attempt to translate [soldiers' diaries quickly for intelligence purposes."_

_(Sorry for all of the footnotes. I promise that there will be fewer - or hopefully none - in future chapters.)_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

_Author's note: Since I've used italics for both the diary entries and for Hogan's thoughts, I've used ++ to denote the beginning and end of each individual entry or where a long entry may be interrupted by Hogan's responses ._

----

Robert Hogan nearly chucked it in in the first five minutes. Sipping at his rapidly cooling coffee and flipping aimlessly through the notebooks - somehow purposely setting out to read the books back to front felt toomuch like betraying Carter (_an important consideration in promise-breaking_, he thought sarcastically) - he had found pretty much just what he had expected to find. Things like:

_++ HAHA! You should have seen it! The Colonel, Newkirk and Lebeau had to put on skirts and wigs and dress up like girls++_

And_ ++ Lebeau called me a peasant today just cause I didn__'__t make a big fuss over his beef stroganoff. What I was thinking was,__"__Boy, what I wouldn__'__t give to go down to Lucky__'__s snack bar for a cheeseburger and fries. With lots of ketchup. And a milkshake!__"__ Well, I guess I must__'__ve started daydreaming or something, cause the next thing I know, Lebeau__'__s throwing his dishrag at my head++  
_

Hogan chuckled; he remembered that. That was the thing though, at first glance Carter's diary was what you'd expect from a prisoner of war: the typical longing for the comforts of home, the give and take between fellow prisoners, the little everyday happenings. Carter did a little griping here and there, but mostly his good nature shone right through the pages. Hogan seriously began to wonder if he'd made too big a deal over the whole issue. He pressed on, however.

_++ Poor Louie. The Colonel had to give away his little dog. When the Colonel apologized, he waved it off and told the Colonel that there was nothing to forgive, but you could tell the poor guy was pretty broke up. I think he didn't say anything more about it to the Colonel though, cause he knew the Colonel already felt bad about the whole thing. But it's not like it was the Colonel's fault. He had to give the dog to Rumplestiltskin since it was the only way to give her the bone with the film in it too! Besides, Lebeau has to know we would've had to give up the dog sooner or later anyway. At least this way we know he went to someone who'll look after him._

_He's still really down though. I wish I knew something that would cheer him up, but I don't. I don't see why we can't have pets anyway. I think that the Germans just don't like anybody being happy, that's all. ++  
_

The right corner of Hogan's mouth twisted a bit; the same thought had often occurred to him. What else could you say about people who went to the trouble of confiscating the musical instruments and radios of a group of people they were already planning to send off to work camps?

He opened to another page at random and stopped when something caught his eye.

_++ I'd given anything if the Colonel could've thought of another plan. And what I can't figure out is why he was so sure that I wasn't afraid of water! Where the heck he'd ever get that dumb idea? I HATE THE WATER! I thought for sure he'd have seen that by now._

_When it came to the well though, I didn't know what to hope for: that'd he finally notice I was scared and get me out of it, or that he wouldn't notice so then he couldn't say anything about it in front of the guys. But I guess he didn't see it - not even after I went down for a second time - cause they finally got around to pulling me out, him and Newkirk were joking about it like it was nothing! That really bothered me, but what could I say since I never told them I'm scared of water in the first place++  
_

Hogan was completely taken aback. He did remember Carter walking away from him and Newkirk in a huff, not even taking the blanket to keep warm, but he'd never noticed how upset Carter had really been. And where had he gotten the idea that Carter wasn't afraid of water? _I couldn't have just assumed he was all right with it simply because that's what I wanted him to do, could I?_

A twinge of slightly shameful curiosity to see what else might be going through Carter's head that he was unaware of, mixed itself in with whatever inexplicable reason was driving him to read another man's diary. He opened the notebook to an arbitrary point near the back, only to stumble on something even more worrying.

_++ The guys are really bugging me tonight. Why do they always have to nag me? Just because I'm not jumping for joy because we blew up that stupid supply train! For Pete's sake, can't a guy feel a little tired once and awhile without his friends calling him grouchy?_

_Especially considering all that running back and forth I had to do last week when the Colonel made me join the German Army! I didn't get a wink of sleep rushing back and forth for those stupid roll calls and do any of them care? Not on your life! Probably just killed themselves laughing at me getting stuck with the grunt work again. Sometimes I think that's all I'm here for: to do the jobs they don't want to do! Do the laundry, Carter. Jump in the well, Carter. Put on this dress and play the groom's mother in front of everyone, Carter. Let us shoot at you, Carter. Pretend to be a traitor, Carter. Watch the door while all of us smart people talk, Carter._

_Heck, my new unit cared more about me than the guys did. Okay, I was only there a few nights and maybe they would've got tired of me eventually, but there were nice to me all the time I was there! Berg brought me coffee when I was on duty the one day because he could see how beat I was. And then, even though he could have got into trouble, he stayed and talked so the time would pass quicker for me. He showed me a picture of his two little girls too. They're both five, with red hair, and talk about cute! You know, it's funny, but I never thought of Germans having red hair. Anyway, they live with their Grandma because Berg's wife died when they were born. Isn't that sad? And now Berg is worried because his mother isn't feeling well and so if anything happens to her while he's away the girls will have no one to take care of them._

_Some of the other guys had kids too. Storf's little boy, he's nearly two and Storf was bragging that he's a born mountaineer cause he climbs all over just about everything. Storf was nice to me too: he took my shift on sentry duty on the second day so I could finally get some sleep. And Kolb shared his cheese roll and sausages with me when I missed breakfast. I thought he was mean at first, but then Volker told me he's just on edge because his Dad was in an accident and might lose his job. Yet he still shared his food with the new guy. (Not like Newkirk, who traded my last chocolate bar for some cigarettes while I was gone!)_

_Anyway, so I wasn't excited to blow up the train - so what? That's no reason to tease a guy. Some of the Germans driving it must have been hurt, or probably worse. And what if it wasn't only carrying supplies? What if there was German troops on it too? Then a whole bunch of people maybe could've died. Berg and Storf and them, they're supposed to go to the Russian front soon. They could've been on that train. I can't even remember how many beers bought to welcome me and now I might've blown them up. ++  
_

Hogan stared those last two paragraphs. At first it had only seemed like Carter was blowing off some steam after the strain of being undercover, or even just doing some irritable grousing and feeling sorry for himself, like they all did from time to time. After all, he hadn't seen how worried they'd all been for him that first night when he'd been missing, he'd only heard the fellas ribbing him about turning into a Nazi and stealing his last chocolate bar. It was easy to see where he might feel like he was being taken for granted.

But this…in his mind's eye he suddenly had a crystal clear picture of Carter abruptly realizing the real reason he was so upset.

_You shouldn't have made him go, _Hogan's conscience piped up after laying silent for a good half hour. _You railroaded him into doing it and never thought about the consequences._

_I didn't railroad him, _he argued back. _I'm his CO - giving him orders is my job. Besides, what else could I have done? It was a golden opportunity. And this is a war, for heaven's sake! What am I supposed to do - hold his hand for him? Anyway, he's built bombs before and known that we were going to use them to kill someone._

_But you never forced him to get to know his victims before, _his conscience pointed out.

_It's not like I ordered him to make friends with them!_

_A good spy can't be off standing in a corner. Getting information means getting people to open up to you,_the other voice shot back.

_Then he could have been more professional. Acting friendly doesn't mean getting all soft-hearted, _he maintained, but even as he said it, he knew it was a losing argument. He threw his hands up and the warring voices subsided.

_Oh, who are you kidding? _he asked himself wearily, rubbing his hands over his stubbled face_. Did you really expect Carter to be able to separate his emotions like that? That's not who Carter is; that's not who any of them are. They weren't trained for this; they're only volunteers who are running their butts off to do everything you ask them to do. You got lucky, Rob. Carter pulled off infiltrating the German Army, and then - even more luckily for you - was able to keep going. No matter what he wrote, no matter how he felt or what was going on in his head that night, he still went out and blew up that train. And the power station two nights after that, and the ball-bearing plant a week after that._

However, as much as Hogan tried to reassure himself, this sudden dark tone concerned him. What if this hadn't been just a momentary crisis? One man doubting himself could lead to trouble for all of them. Temporarily forgetting his internal conflict over what he was doing, he started turning the pages quickly, purposely searching for any signs to his sergeant's true state of mind. He paused half way through an entry for the previous year.

_++ I choked. I shot that stupid darn arrow right into the Colonel's window frame! I did that kind of shot a million times when I was at home and yet the one time I really, really needed to do it, I screw it up! It's bad enough other times when I can't seem to do anything right, but this is something that I know I can do! How could I mess this up?_

_And why now, when the guys have just found out about me? They've been making jokes for days and all I wanted to do was prove to them that my being an Indian could be useful so they'd shut up. Only now it's an even bigger joke than before._

_I wish I knew for sure why they're laughing. Or why they were laughing before anyway; they're laughing now because I messed up again. But before, did they think it was funny because I'm an Indian or because they thought I was only making up some dumb story?_

_I mean, I don't want think it's because they've found out I'm not completely white, but it's not like no one has ever acted differently towards me once they learned the truth. I remember Miss Baxter, back in second grade. She used to tell me everyday that I could be President when I grew up. She even gave me a peppermint stick the first time I ever did my times tables without making a mistake. I would've rather had a chocolate bar, but I didn't tell her that because I had a crush on her a mile wide. Nobody other than my family had ever told me how smart I was before. Then she met Dad. After that she still pretended to be nice to me, but she wouldn't look at me and she'd never call on me when I put my hand up to answer a question. And she never told me I could be President anymore. I might've been dumb at times, but I was smart enough to figure out what that meant. (Well, eventually anyway.) Then there was that whole thing with Mary Jane's parents too. What's a guy supposed to do though? Wear a label?_

_Anyway, I guess I don't really believe the guys would turn on me cause they found out about my race, but all that means is that they're laughing at ME. Because I'm so BAD at being what they think an Indian is supposed to be. They don't realize it's hard enough knowing I'm probably never be as good at things as I want to be, I don't need them pointing it out and making fun of me for it. But I can't say anything now cause it'll just look like I'm being a big crybaby over not shooting the train after bragging to everyone that I could._

_Still, no matter how they mean it, they're making fun of who I AM now and that's what really hurts. But I guess they never thought about that. I'm just poor, goofy Carter; nothing ever goes too deep with me._

_I just bet you though, that the Colonel would've put a stop to it if the guys had been making fun of Kinch because of his race. ++  
_

_Ouch,_ Hogan winced. _Guess Mom was right: eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves. _He couldn't decide what bothered him more, Carter's self-pity or the fact that there was a lot of truth in what he had written. Had none of them ever stopped to consider that Carter might think that they were insulting him because they'd found out he wasn't really white? Hogan thought back - had they even considered it about race at all?

An instant, tiny spark of anger flickered for a second. _He should__'__ve known better than that. How could he even think for a moment that we__'__d make fun of his race? We were just teasing him like__…_ Hogan paused, then conceded with a sigh, _like we always do. _He shook his head_. I guess I can__'__t blame the poor guy for feeling a little doubt over how much we may or may not respect him. Inconsiderate is inconsiderate. How was he supposed to determine the motives behind it?_

He nearly closed the book then, but one of the lines he'd just read suddenly sunk in. _"__Then there was that whole thing with Mary Jane__'__s parents too.__"_Despite dreading what he knew he was going to find, he opened the book at the beginning and then turned the pages until he found the right date.

_++ The guys don't get it. They all think MJ's a tramp or something for leaving me like she did. Or maybe they just assume no one could love me enough to be faithful. Do they think I don't know a nice girl when I see one? Anyway, I know they're all thinking I'm crazy for believing I can win her back if I go home, but they don't know what it was like for her. They don't know what her folks were like. Always picking away at her, always telling her how much she needed them, always making her think that she didn't know how to do anything on her own. I tell you, they'd get her so down on herself that sometimes she couldn't make a single decision without freezing up._

_And boy, did they not like me! Their precious little princess wasn't going to marry the son of a half breed. They were always going on about what a stupid decision that was. ++  
_

"Dammit," Hogan actually said outloud, "is that why she left the poor guy?" It was one thing to suspect it, but seeing it written down in black and white… He kept reading despite himself.

_++ But when I was there though, I could shield her from it a bit. And when I couldn't, at least I was close enough that she could believe we'd eventually be together. But then I got stuck over here and now I can't comfort her or make her believe it'll all work out all right. Now I can't promise her anything. And her folks must have started in on her the minute I left: "He's not coming home. You can't trust him. You can't depend on him," - the same things they always said._

_She wrote me once saying they told her that even if I did make it through, I still wouldn't come back for her, that I'd go off with someone new. They told her, "You don't know what these people are like - they don't have the same sense of loyalty to a wife that a real Christian would," and by that they meant someone didn't have Indian blood. As if our wedding was going to be nothing but some kind of rain dance or something, or we wouldn't be married like real people. Nothing with an official license or a proper church, just shacked up in some sort of tepee, with me running out on Mary Jane the minute I got tired of her!_

_Boy, that really burns me thinking about it! Mary Jane could have had anything she wanted. And anyway, who are they to say the Indian way is so wrong? All we wanted was to do it nice, whatever our plans turned out to be. I wanted it to be right; I didn't want anything to mess it up for Mary Jane and me._

_But you know what's the worst? All that was only an excuse. What really got to them was the idea of us having kids together. They were always going to Mary Jane and telling her that they "needed to have a serious talk." And that talk was always about how my being their father was going to be hard on our kids, that it was somehow cruel to even think of putting an innocent child through that. Now I ask you, what kind of garbage is that? Back in Bull Frog, most people don't care, and if we move anywhere else, probably no one will even know unless we decide we want to tell them. But it's not like our kids are who they really cared about. They just didn't want to have to introduce "half breed" grandchildren to all of their friends._

_So I don't blame Mary Jane. Her folks must have never let up on her once I was out of the picture. And, well, Mary Jane too, she was always so scared to be alone. She was absolutely terrified at the idea of me going off, and her folks knew that. Heck, they're the ones who'd made her so scared of everything in the first place. Must've been easy for them to convince her to play it safe, to date someone who wasn't going away and maybe get himself killed. Someone who was there. Anything else she might have been to stand up to, but not that. ++  
_

Hogan stopped reading. There was more - the involuntary flick of his eyes over the next paragraph gave him the impression that it was about Carter's grief over what he had lost - but sympathetic curiosity had finally given way to a feeling that he was hurting his Sergeant by further prying into this particular entry. Skimming through the following pages however, he saw that there were many long entries for the following weeks; obviously Carter's hurt had gone on far longer than they'd thought. Hogan read how Carter had often gone to the park or the zoo or the movies, just to sit alone, when they had all thought he was out with Mady. He'd talked about her too, apparently interested, but only wishing he'd met at a different time.

Hogan was torn. "Accidentally" catching a paragraph here and there, he caught a glimpse of a Carter he hadn't noticed at the time, one who was hurting and feeling at a loss about his future. Losing his fianceé, giving up his job in Muncie, even his mother selling his childhood home in Bullfrog and moving in with her sister in upstate New York: all of this had for awhile left Carter with the sense that he had nothing to go back to. There was one long entry where he'd wondered just exactly where he was supposed to call home after the war .

So keeping this diary had provided Carter with a desperately needed outlet at the time - one that it would seem he couldn't have gotten from them. And Hogan reflected a bit ruefully that maybe Carter had had a point. It was a hard thing to say, but he had to confess that maybe he _hadn__'__t_ bothered to pay attention to what Carter had been going through. His tripping over everything, the lame jokes, the way he shrugged his shoulders and shuffled happily along most days: it was hard enough to take Carter all that seriously at the best of times, let alone believe that someone could possibly be desperately in love with him.

Hogan thought back. Had he assumed Mary Jane had left Carter because it was so easy to believe she'd found someone better looking, or - and he was ashamed to admit that this was more likely - had simply given it no thought at all because it wasn't that important to him? It wasn't that he hadn't felt bad for his demolitions man, but once Carter had decided to stay (and learning that Carter possibly could have won Mary Jane back put that decision in a whole new light), hadn't his problem been pretty much solved?

Therefore, it wasn't hard to see why Carter had turned to this as a solution. But on the other hand, didn't this one entry alone show off the very dangers he'd warned Carter about when he'd confiscated it? Look at all of the things an interrogator could use to manipulate the poor guy into talking: how his friends made fun of him, how he'd been treated in the past about his race, his worries for the future, his loss of a place to call home. Most of all they could use the fact that he'd lost the woman he loved. "These Nazis don't miss a trick," he'd often told his men, and it was true. Any interrogator worth his salt would twist Carter's loss deep as they could into his heart, along with all of the doubt and feelings of inadequacy they could manufacture. They'd rip into those scars and drive him into such an emotional state he wouldn't know what he was saying.

There was no other choice: he had to burn the notebooks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"It's your move sir," Kinch said.

"What? Oh." Hogan moved his bishop.

"Something wrong, Colonel?" Kinch asked, moving his knight. Usually he and Hogan were evenly enough matched that their chess games in Hogan's quarters helped him relax: the necessary concentration was just right for helping him mentally unwind. This evening however, Hogan's distraction was throwing the whole pace of the game off.

"Why do you ask Kinch?"

"You seem like you're a million miles away. You've been like that for most of the day."

"I didn't get much sleep last night," was all Hogan replied.

Kinch took his eyes off the board and looked at Hogan. "Did something come in from London after I went to bed?" Logically he knew that he couldn't stay awake twenty-four hours a day, but he always disliked it when Hogan had to take a message for him: it felt like he wasn't doing his job.

"No, no, nothing like that," Hogan said. "It's personal. Well, sort of."

"Something you feel like talking about?"

"No, it's…," Hogan shook his head. "I'd like to Kinch, but it's hard to explain. It's not really my place." He reached over for his tin cup, frowning when he found it empty. "I could use some more coffee. Do you know if Lebeau's put another pot on?"

"I think so," Kinch said. "Here, let me sir. I could use a refill myself."

"Thanks," Hogan said, handing the cup over. Kinch took both cups out to the main room and filled Hogan's, then took half a cup for himself. Seated at the table and having a lively poker game were about six of his barracks mates, including Lebeau and Newkirk. Carter though, he noticed, was sitting on his bunk and disinterestedly thumbing through an old magazine. Kinch didn't think much of it, but as he went back into Hogan's quarters, he realized that Carter had been pretty quiet all day as well.

"Here you are sir," Kinch said, passing Hogan his coffee. Hogan absently nodded his thanks. "Is it my move?" Kinch asked when Hogan just sat there.

Hogan blinked. "I'm sorry Kinch, I don't where my head is tonight." He moved his queen.

Kinch sat down. "Sir, no offence, but are you sure you don't want to reconsider telling me about whatever it is that's on your mind?"

Leaning back in his chair, Hogan said, "There's something to be done for the good of the unit, but I've gotta tell you, I'm having the damnedest time actually going through with it."

"That doesn't sound like you, Colonel."

"And don't think that that doesn't worry me just a little bit," Hogan replied sourly. "But the real problem is that it's going to be hard on someone else. I think that's what's making it so difficult."

Kinch smiled as he moved one of his rooks, "Let me guess - Carter?" Then he straightened up suddenly as a idea occurred to him. "Geez Colonel, there's nothing really the matter, is there? Nothing's wrong with Carter's family back home or anything? "

"No, no. It's nothing serious, just…well, I can't really talk about it," he said, and moved his bishop again. "How'd you know it was Carter, anyway? Has he been moping around?"

"I wouldn't call it that. It's more like he hasn't been quite himself today. To be honest, I don't think I even realized it till a few minutes ago when I got the coffee and saw him sitting on his bunk." Kinch moved his queen; he figured he'd have the Colonel in check in about three moves. "So what's the problem with Carter?" he asked.

Hogan examined him closely for a few moments, then leaned forward. "Okay, but look, you can't talk about it in front of the others…"

----

"My commiserations, Olsen me old mate," Newkirk laughed, gleefully hauling the pot towards him with both hands. "Bit of a rum go, getting a full house the same hand where I pull four of a kind. But 'alf the luck's in the timing, I always say!"

"Oh, shut up Newkirk," Olsen said, disgusted.

"So that's you out then, is it?" Newkirk asked with an innocent look.

"Brilliant deduction Sherlock. Now tell me what I'm thinking," Olsen shot back as he vacated his spot at the table.

" 'Ere now, no need for thoughts like that - Carter's delicate ears'll fall off."

Carter turned, hearing his name. "Huh?" he said, then frowned as he saw the others laughing.

Newkirk, who'd made the crack hoping to get a rise out of Carter, settled for at least getting his attention. "Sit in on a few 'ands, Carter. Olsen doesn't have two black cents left to rub together."

"Oui, come and join us, Carter," Lebeau added.

Carter turned back to his magazine. "No thanks."

Newkirk shrugged, "Suit yourself," and started dealing the cards for the next hand. However, from that point on, he found himself sliding the occasional glance over in Carter's direction. Something was up, that much he knew.

"Something wrong, Carter?" he asked a bit tersely two hands later, after irritably discovering that he was having trouble concentrating on his cards. Luckily, he had the skill to cover for it, but still…

"No," his friend replied, but he had put down his magazine at some point and was now idly plucking at a small hole on the knee of his uniform.

"Then could you stop picking away at that?" Newkirk asked him, shifting his eyes back to his cards. "It's bad enough there's another hole that wants mending - I don't need to be sewing up half your trouser leg."

"Sorry," Carter said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. Awkwardly, he stood up and stepped over to the bunk entrance. "I've got something to do down in the tunnels," he explained.

Newkirk and Lebeau rolled their eyes. However, as soon as the hand was over, they both got up to follow their friend and find out what was the matter.

----

Finding Carter in his lab, Newkirk and Lebeau dragged him out and made him sit down on the cot Kinch kept in the radio room.

"So what's got your knickers in such a twist then?" Newkirk wanted to know.

"Nothing," Carter shrugged.

"Come on," Newkirk prodded. "Can't be that bloomin' serious, whatever it is."

"It's not!" Carter snapped. "It's nothing, like I said." It was obvious he wanted them to drop it, yet he shot Newkirk a dirty look all the same at being so easily dismissed.

"So then there's no harm in telling us, is there?" Newkirk reasoned.

"I don't want to, is all," Carter told them. "Go poke your nose in somebody else's business."

"Go on, give us a hint," Newkirk said, sitting down beside Carter on the cot and giving him a poke on the shoulder.

"Oh, knock it off, will ya!"

"Come on mate, it don't do to keep things all bottled-up like. Tell us what's got you so out of sorts."

"Heck no!"

"Why ever not?" Lebeau asked, turning Kinch's chair so that it faced the other two and sitting down.

Carter didn't immediately answer and Newkirk and Lebeau - who till now had half been pestering Carter only to pass the time - looked at him more closely. Newkirk draped an arm over Carter's shoulder. "Really now, what's got you so worked up, Carter?" he asked.

Carter shrugged again, but avoided their eyes. "You'll laugh at me."

Newkirk and Lebeau glanced at each other. There was something about Carter's tone telling them that potential embarrassment might be only part of the reason. Lebeau nodded at Newkirk, who took his arm off of Carter's shoulder and purposely made a show of settling in to listen. "We won't," he assured his friend.

Carter shifted and fidgeted a bit, not giving in till Newkirk nudged him in the shoulder. "Fine!" Carter blurted out, throwing his hands up with exasperation. "The Colonel caught me keeping a diary and gave me a big lecture about how I put everyone in danger!"

"A diary?" Lebeau asked.

"Yeah, a diary! What's wrong with that?" Carter demanded, already put out at the thought of the weeks and even months of teasing he knew was ahead of him. He could hear it now: the guys comparing him to some silly thirteen year old girl mooning over movie stars in her diary every night and keeping the key to it in her teddy bear. Heck, forget weeks and months, they'd probably be ragging him even after the war!

"Not a thing mate," Newkirk said. Unfamiliar with the stereotype, he was unsure as to what the actual problem was. He did find it a little funny though and tried not to smile; Carter had never struck him as the type to do any writing. Or even do any deep thinking about things, if Newkirk truly wanted to be honest. Carter had always struck him as a very easy-going, live-in-the-moment sort of bloke; he nearly started to chuckle at the sorts of things he pictured Carter scribbling down in his diary.

"Yeah, well tell that to the Colonel! You'd think the whole world was coming to an end to hear him talk about it," Carter argued. However, while his words might have sounded resentful, his friends could tell from his bleak expression that whatever the Colonel had said to him, it had hit home.

"What is the trouble, Carter? Why did Colonel Hogan say that it was wrong for you to keep a diary?" Lebeau asked.

Carter fumbled his way through all the things Colonel Hogan had drilled into him. "I never meant to put anyone in danger," Carter explained at the end. "Honest! I only wanted to…well, I mean, it's just that I don't think I'll ever do anything as important as this again, you know?"

His friends nodded, the same thought about themselves had occurred to both at different times as well.

"So…I guess I only wanted to be able to remember it," Carter admitted. "You know what my memory's like. But you gotta believe me, I never _ever_ would've done it if I thought that it could get somebody hurt!"

Newkirk leaned back and exhaled noisily. "I wouldn't 'ave either," he said quietly after a few seconds. Then, catching the way their eyes widened, "Oh blimey, I can do without the 'You, Newkirk? You keep a diary?' routine if you don't mind."

"It's just that…" Carter began, at the same time Lebeau said, "It's only that you do not seem…"

"It wasn't my flippin' idea in the first place, as it happens. Me uncle signed me up for the Mass Observation Project and…well…I suppose I simply never got round to dropping the habit."

"What the heck is the Mass Observation project?" Carter asked.

"It's some sort of - don't know what you'd call it - maybe a social experiment. These two blokes got it going back in '37 or '38. They wanted people to keep diaries and send them in - keep sort of a historical record of the times." (1)

"Sounds weird. Why'd your uncle sign you up?"

"Search me, mate - something about them not just hearing from the toffs of this world. But that's not the point. Point is, I should've stopped once I joined up. They told us we weren't to keep diaries, only I wanted a way to let my family know I'd been thinking of them. You know, if things turned out for the worst. Let them know how things had been with me and what I'd been up to while I was gone. "

Carter pulled a face. "Geez Newkirk, that's depressing. Do ya hafta talk like that?"

"Don't tell me you've never thought on it, Carter."

"Sure I have, but I don't get the point of thinking about it all the time."

"Well, that's not the only reason!" Newkirk protested. "I also thought it might come in 'andy some day. As proof that I wasn't a traitor!"

Carter and Lebeau couldn't help it: their English friend's reasons were just so over-the-top pessimistic, so typically _Newkirk_, that they started shaking, then snickering, and then finally they were laughing out loud.

"What?" Newkirk demanded. Looking at him and seeing his expression of offended indignation only made them laugh harder. "Oh, I like that!" he complained. "A bloke's sitting 'ere, baring his soul, and his best mates think it's a riot. Don't even 'ave the decency to tell a person what's so bleedin' funny!"

"I am sorry Newkirk."

"Yeah, me too buddy," Carter said, patting his friend on the shoulder.

"That'd be a sight more believable if you weren't both still giggling like ruddy school girls."

Carter pressed his lips together in hopes of stopping, but one corner of his mouth was still twitching upwards. "I'm sorry Newkirk," he apologized again. "We didn't mean to laugh, not really." Lebeau nodded and attempted to put a more serious expression on his face, with only marginal success.

"So what're your reasons then, Lebeau?" Newkirk asked.

A startled Lebeau sat straight up and stared at Newkirk. "What? I don't - "

"Don't give us any of that! I've seen you writing in that book of yours."

"Well, boy oh boy, if that doesn't take the cake!" Carter said. "Here I was beating myself up about putting all the guys at risk and both you guys were doing it too!"

Lebeau shook his head. "Non, non - they are only recipes," he tried to insist casually.

"Oh yes?" Newkirk asked sceptically. "I always reckoned your average top-flight master chef didn't need recipes. 'Spose I must've been wrong in your case."

"Hey yeah!" Carter cried, rounding on the Frenchman. "That's what you told me when I caught you returning that recipe book I bought you for Christmas!"

"That was different. These are my own recipes that I am writing down - "

"And so all that nonsense you gave out about a chef being an artist and cooking by taste and talent alone was a load of rubbish, was it?" Newkirk enquired with a grin.

"Yeah! C'mon Louie, 'fess up."

Lebeau gave in, throwing his hands up much as Carter had done. "Fine! D'accord! I have been keeping a diary! Now you know."

"Oh for Pete's sake - not you too!" came a voice from behind them. Their commanding officer strode into the room. Kinch followed behind him, carrying a stack of writing pads like the kind London sent them.

"Sorry, mon Colonel."

Hogan nodded his head towards the door. "Go on. Go and get it and add it to the pile," he ordered Lebeau wearily.

"Pile?" Carter asked. "I thought…"

Hogan interrupted him with a gesture at the load Kinch was carrying. "Seems like you weren't the only one Carter." Then he spotted Newkirk getting up and edging his way out with Lebeau. "Newkirk?"

"Sorry guv'nor," Newkirk admitted sheepishly.

Hogan rolled his eyes skyward. "Why on Earth should I be surprised?" his men heard him ask himself.

A few moments later, Newkirk and Lebeau returned. Lebeau's diary consisted of store bought stationary that he could only have bought outside, or bribed a guard for, but Newkirk's on the other hand, made the three other guilty men smile a little with appreciation. It was one of the thick, fancy ledger books that the Germans shipped to Klink as part of his office supplies.

"Hey Newkirk, that's a great idea. When did you grab that?" Carter asked.

Newkirk opened his mouth to answer, but Colonel Hogan cut him off sharply. "Never mind Carter. Kinch, Newkirk, Lebeau - leave everything next to the radio and then all four of you get up top. It's nearly lights out."

After the four enlisted men reluctantly filed out and returned to the barracks, Hogan took the bundle of his men's diaries to the same cabinet he kept all of the operation's secret papers in and locked them away with Carter's.

"Great, just great. Exactly what I needed," he muttered irritably.

* * *

_1) The Mass-Observation Archive was a social investigation project set up in 1937 by writer Charles Madge and Tom Harrison, a self-trained anthropologist and explorer. In 1938 they started appealing for volunteer observers from among the ordinary members of the British public. The amateur historian in me finds this a fascinating idea, but it also seems a bit like something out of 1984. Sort of 'We don't have Big Brother up and running yet, so if you could all keep an eye on your neighbours and get back to us, that'd be great. Thanks.'_

_Anyway, hope you've been enjoying the story so far. However, I'm going to have to invoke the "unexpected trip" clause of the promise I made on my profile to post chapter updates in under a week. I may be back in two weeks, or it may be eight, but hopefully no longer than that. Sorry for the wait. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_Author's note: Sorry for making you all wait so long. Hopefully this nice long chapter - seriously, get a sandwich - will make up to you. And my many, many thanks to GSJessica, who beta'ed this chapter for me. (Sorry though, Jess. I kept the diaries in the original format. The only changed that's changed is that I couldn't get the plus signs to work. What is with the disappearing punctuation on this site? )   
_

_Also, I was unsure as to whether or not to change the rating for language and racial terms. I've decided to let it simply stand with this warning, but if any of you feel it should be upgraded, please let me know._

----

Four aggravating nights passed before Hogan could sneak down into the tunnels. London was to blame for the first two and leftover tension had kept him awake for the third, which would have might have been the prime opportunity if it also hadn't done the same for his men. He had gritted his teeth and felt his blood pressure go up each time he tried to sneak out of his quarters and was thwarted by one of the guys rolling over or getting up for a drink of water. Asking himself why he didn't just go down and fob off some excuse if one of them questioned him - _after all I'm in charge here_, he reflected - he realized it was because he still felt a little bad about what he was doing, not to mention a touch embarrassed. As for the fourth night, worry about the diaries being in the tunnels and the crazy itch that was making him read them both took a back seat to simple exhaustion.

So now he'd had four days and nights - well, really five days - to ask himself why he hadn't just burned the books. And five days and four nights had brought him no closer to the answer.

It didn't help that he felt like he was digging himself in deeper by reading the diaries of the other three. Even if they never found out - and he'd only told Kinch he'd taken Carter's diary, not that he'd read it - he still felt antsy and half-ashamed at the very idea of invading the his men's privacy this way.

Fate seemed to agree as the light bulb in the radio room shorted out with a popping _snap_ when he hit the switch. Already aggravated by his mental back-and-forth about the notebooks, Hogan swore, and rooted through their meagre supplies with less gentleness than was wise for hard to get radio parts and bulbs made of glass.

_So why are you doing this? Why not keep the notebooks locked up until you figure out why the hell you haven't got rid of them?_

_Because I haven't found the answer yet - that's why! And it's not going to come with me sitting on my damn hands, now is it?_

After screwing in the new bulb, and discovering that he was muttering to himself, he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat on the cot in the radio room to get his irritation under control. A few minutes and half a cup later, he had to laugh at himself: _Mom was right. This is what you get when you know you're doing something you shouldn't._

Yet, strangely, admitting this to himself made him accept the fact that it had to be done. Or at least that he was going to do it, so why bother feeling bad about it anymore? He put his coffee down gently and reached over to his left, to where he'd dropped the diaries on the cot when he'd first come in. Looking at the three of them, he decided to start with Kinch's. He didn't know why, other than the fact Kinch had voluntarily told him about his own diary. Perhaps that made some unconscious part of him feel less like a snoop.

"Why did you tell me about this?" he had asked Kinch when Kinch had first told him.

Kinch shrugged. "Considering all of the things you said to Carter, it seemed like the right thing to do."

Hogan smiled despite himself. It was easy to see why Kinch had really done it. "In that case, you know, you could have just burnt this yourself and never needed to tell me about it," he'd pointed out.

"Guess I didn't think of that," was all Kinch said, but it was enough. Hogan had the whole story without even asking. Kinch hadn't wanted him to think Carter was the only one who had done something stupid. If Carter had to take the blame for something they'd both been doing, then Kinch intended on taking his share.

Now, five days later and hiding down in the tunnels, Hogan started reading.

----

As luck would have it, flipping through Kinch's writing the same random way he had Carter's, the first entries he stumbled on were in many ways the same sort of thing: innocuous, typical prisoner of war fare.

_// The weather's beautiful here today. I almost didn't notice it. I'm beginning to wonder, that what with how busy things have been lately, and how dismal and bleak this cesspool usually is, if I've stopped noticing beautiful days._

_Well, that ends now. I don't get to see enough daylight to be able to afford ignoring it, and missing a day like today would be a downright sin. It's warm out and the trees are turning. It may not be the same blaze of color that I'd get back home in Michigan, but they're wonderful to look at all the same. In fact, it's so beautiful out today that I don't even care that winter is coming. //_

A sudden feeling of homesickness seemed to burst right in the middle of Hogan's chest. Never mind that it was night outside, and bucketing down rain, he could see the trees back home - literally _see _them - all ablaze with colour and glowing in glorious sunlight. The intensity of the feeling surprised him; Kinch hadn't gone into any great description. Hogan realized he must be missing home more than he'd known.

But he forcibly pushed the thought away and flipped the page. Personal sentiment was a thing he couldn't really afford to waste time on. He turned his concentration back to Kinch's familiar handwriting.

_// Mail call today. Only one letter this time - from Aunt Ruby - and most of it has been so blacked out by the censors there was almost no point in opening it._

_Now, I ask you, what in the world is a sixty-three year old colored cleaning woman possibly going to write that would threaten national security? How backed up the toilets get at Conroy's Window Cleaning? How many corns she's got on her feet? That old Bert Lewis at Kostova's Lamp Store keeps hitting on her? It's ridiculous! Those black marks got me so fed up today that paranoia took over and I started to wonder if that little pissant censor who always seems to get my letters is persecuting me personally and not just swiping that black pen around out of an inflated sense of self-importance._

_Lord, I miss being able to write a good honest letter! The stories I make up for Aunt Ruby in order to make her think everything's okay are beginning to feel like disrespectful lies. And if something were to happen to me over here, I hate the thought of her believing the last thing I ever did was try and deceive her. But what else can I do? I can't place another burden on her, and even if I wanted to tell her the truth about the operation, or even the real day-to- day conditions here, it wouldn't get through the censors._

_I suppose I'm just tired of the constant constraint of always having to watch what I say. I'm not a talkative man by any means, but not being able to write a simple letter in which I can express myself freely to my own family…well, it's become one very surprising irritant. //  
_

Hogan was taken aback; he'd never realized Kinch felt that way. With Lebeau or Newkirk, or even Carter, something like this wouldn't have thrown him a bit - they were extroverted and impulsive by nature. But thinking before he spoke had always appeared to come so naturally to Kinch. Realizing that things obviously got to Kinch the same way that they got to anyone else knocked him off-kilter, not to mention made him feel a touch stupid.

_Of course things get to him, _Hogan cursed himself inwardly as he opened the notebook to a new page. _ Just because he doesn't complain as often doesn't mean he isn't being affected._

_// The mail came today - at long last//_

Hogan grimaced at another entry about the mail, but he told himself it had to be common theme with POWs.

// _Got five letters - a veritable bonanza. One from Dexter, two from Althea, and two from Marty. Dexter didn__'__t have much to say, mostly family gossip: his Aunt Val and his mother-in-law are still making things hot for him and Sarah over the whole casserole incident; he__'__s applied for a construction job with the city, but he__'__s worrying they won__'__t take him because of his foot; his Dad__'__s having more trouble with his neighbors. The same old, usual, everyday stuff. (And never in a million years did I ever think I__'__d be excited to hear it! )_

_I haven't read Althea's yet - I'm saving those for tomorrow; she always writes a good long letter. Marty's were interesting, though. He's still working at the VA hospital. I knew the service would turn him down - he's forty-three years old for Pete's sake. What was he expecting? And precisely what job did he envision the military giving him that would be more important than helping people as an orderly? I've seen with my own eyes how over-worked some of those doctors are; a lot of the time Marty's the only one those boys have around to take care of them._

_However, it seems as if he's come to terms with it. They've moved him onto the mental ward. That doesn't surprise me at all - Marty was always good around nervous people. Strong, patient, soothing, and - except for being a damn fool who thinks he's not doing his duty by not being in Army - smart. He would have made a good psychiatrist in another place and time._

_On the other hand though, he's always said the same thing about me. According to him, I've got a good listening ear. And, as he always reminds me, at least I'd be starting out with a high school diploma and a year of college under my belt. "Not like me with only seventh grade, Jimmy. By the time I got my education over and done with, I'd be nothing but an old colored man with a grey beard down to my feet."_

_The irony of it all is now that I believe there's a possibility of things changing and it would be worth trying, this is when I'm stuck in a prisoner of war camp. I'm 32 now, and who knows how much longer my life's going to be on hold while this war drags out? Even if I'm only 35 or so when it's done, then it's a matter of getting the money together, finishing college and medical school, then developing a practice that will accept me, let alone give me enough to live on. Heaven only knows how long all that will take._

_Perhaps in the end, I simply don't want it enough. It's an intriguing idea, but struggling for years to build a career in a field I'm not even sure I'd care for… I think I'd rather concentrate on the simpler things. A family, a home. And if I want the time to really enjoy them, I guess I'll have to settle for a job that's simply a job. //  
_

Hogan put the notebook down on his knees for a moment and sipped at his coffee. He knew this was common problem for POWs: the whole idea of your life coming to a standstill for an undetermined length of time, but it bothered Hogan to think of it affecting the men closest to him. He'd never really worried about himself. True, the rate of promotions slowed down after a war, and if knowledge of the operation never came out he wouldn't have much to work with. However, he knew he was a persuasive man - he'd find a way. As for a wife and kids, well, he'd never really pictured that for himself. It wasn't a matter of giving up his freedom or being tied down, it simply wasn't what interested him.

But the others…how long would it take Lebeau to get the backing for a restaurant in a country already over run with them, not to mention one that was financially devastated by war? How many years could Newkirk keep doing sleight of hand at a professional level? Hogan didn't know much about magic, but even he realized only a very lucky few managed to make a life long career of it. Newkirk's prime opportunities to really break out of the pack were probably gone anyway. As for opening a pub, Newkirk would be facing the same problems as Lebeau would with his restaurant.

Carter would probably be okay, Hogan reflected, but even he would potentially have lost his most productive years. Besides, it wasn't just about careers - it was about time lost for family, for dreams, for everything. Hogan could only thank God that at least here they had the operation to keep them busy and distract them from constant drumbeat of each day and month and year that was being robbed from them. Still, he turned the page rather quickly, anxious to stop thinking about this topic.

Hogan read a few more entries and found that - again, like Carter's - they displayed the personality of the man who had written them. Kinch's thoughts showed the careful consideration, the attentiveness to detail, the intelligent and thoughtful examination of life in general, he and the rest of the team were familiar with when it came to their most unflappable member.

But when he happened upon a long entry near the middle of the book, Hogan remembered that, out of necessity, Kinch had had a lifetime of practice in keeping a cool head.

_// Yesterday in the tunnels I found Lebeau listening to Carter fret about something. I don't know what made me stop and listen - instinct maybe - but I stayed back and hid around the corner, despite the warning Mom was always giving me about eavesdropping. //_

One side of Hogan's mouth twisted a bit. _Fine, fine. I get it. No need to point fingers, _he thought.

_// "It's only going to upset him for no reason Lebeau," Carter was saying._

"_He's a grown man Carter - he deserves to know that he has been insulted."_

"_Why? It's not like he's got to work with either of them," Carter argued back. "Look, either it'll make him mad and he'll do something that'll get him into trouble, or make trouble for the Colonel, or he'll hold it in and it'll do nothing but eat away at him. Why put him through that?"_

"_He has had to face such things before, non? He - "_

"_But it's different here, Lebeau! He's got no way to get away from it!"_

"_Kinch deserves better than to be treated like that." Hearing my own name gave me a sinking feeling._

"_Of course he deserves better than to be treated like that!" Carter hissed at Lebeau. But then he sounded frustrated and I heard him say, "Look Lebeau, you just don't understand. You've never been to America. You've never seen what it's like for Negroes over there. Mitchell and Long aren't ever going to change and stuck here in camp, there's nothing Kinch can do about it." I don't think I'd ever heard Carter sound so pessimistic before._

"_They will say something to him eventually."_

"_Maybe not. They know the Colonel will step in if they actually did anything to Kinch. Maybe they'll just keep avoiding him like they always do."_

"_What if they don't?"_

"_Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Why make problems for the poor guy now when you don't have to?"_

"_It is wrong Carter."_

"_Well, Newkirk doesn't want us to tell and it's his decision." //_

Hogan went back and looked at the date. His knuckles tightened to the point where he was in danger of ripping the notebook apart. Newkirk. The fight with Mitchell and Long.

_// "All right Carter. We won't say anything to him," Lebeau told him. But the damage was already done. After I heard Carter leave I cornered Lebeau._

"_Tell me," I said. But I didn't really need him to. Newkirk got himself thrown into the cooler last week for fighting with Mitchell and Long from Barracks 8. I should have guessed then, but I didn't. I didn't even figure it out when Newkirk refused to tell the Colonel why. Colonel Hogan got so mad he stopped trying to work on Klink and left Newkirk to stew for the whole five days. But now I realized that it wasn't that Newkirk didn't want to tell the Colonel, it was because I was there too and he didn't want to talk in front of me._

"_Kinch, it is nothing," Lebeau tried to convince me._

"_If it was nothing then you'd be looking me in the eye. Tell me - it was Mitchell and Long, wasn't it?"_

"_They are not worth bothering about, mon ami. They are foolish and ignorant boys."_

"_I'm not going to say it again, Lebeau!" I shouted at him._

"_What does it matter, mon ami?" and I swear he was almost pleading with me. "It was nothing nice, you know that. You can guess the sort of things people like that say. Why do you need to hear them?"_

"_So I don't have to guess."_

"_They called you names," Lebeau told me softly. "Nigger. Coon. Also one I have never heard before: jungle rabbit."_

"_Jungle bunny," I corrected him. I felt my throat growing tight and I was having a hard time keeping myself from driving my fist into the tunnel wall. But for some reason I didn't want to show my rage in front of Lebeau. "What else?" I demanded._

_I heard him sigh. "They were saying how wrong it was that good men were having to kill and die for you and your kind." //  
_

"Oh Goddamnit!" Hogan shouted out loud. "How much longer do we all have to deal with this crap?" He raised the notebook over his head, but just barely managed to stop himself from whipping it to the floor. Instead he dropped roughly on the cot. "Dammit," he swore again. "I knew those two bigoted sons-of-bitches had more to do with it than Newkirk let on!"

Simmering dangerously, Hogan sat there for five whole minutes before he could pick up Kinch's notebook again.

_// Lebeau was right when he said that I'd faced this sort of thing before - I've been dealing with this garbage from the day I was born. I thought I'd learned to get past it, but this time… I don't know. It's been a hell of a long time since I've been this furious._

"_Good men." That's what they'd said. As if I and "my kind" aren't in that group. As if we aren't men at all, are not even human. Like we're nothing more than a group of animals that actual, real, human men were having to degrade themselves or risk their lives for. Apparently, it's never penetrated through their thick, cracker skulls that my people could say the same damn thing! Only with more reason! Why are we letting the white man force us to kill for him, why are we laying down our lives for a people and country that hates us? Because we believe so deeply in a democracy that can't even take part in. Yet they still can't see us as human!_

_But the thing that's really bothering me now is that it's been two days and I'm still fuming. The Colonel came back to the barracks this morning after talking to the Kommandant and he started steaming to me about having to make a show of kowtowing to someone like Klink. I can usually see how something like that might stick in a man's craw, but just this once I couldn't work up any sympathy for him. All I could think was, "So you've had to kiss up to someone beneath you for a year now, simply because he's the one in power. So what. We win this war and you'll never have to do it again. But me and my kind will be doing it the rest of our lives." //  
_

Hogan stared at the notebook in his hands, speechless. He'd never once thought about how inconsiderate his griping about Klink might be to someone like Kinch. What made it even worse, was that usually Kinch was the only one he complained to.

_// What I don't understand why I'm still so upset. I learned long ago that if I got angry over every S.O.B in the world I__'__d go crazy. So why can__'__t I let it go this time?_

_It don't think it's because I have to face those two jackasses every day. As galling as it is to meekly keep quiet, I've swallowed nastier comments before from employers and people I've had to work with. I will admit, though, that it's harder now, when I don't have the same option of returning home every night to my family and friends. To people who look like me._

_Maybe it's the awkwardness it's caused between my friends and I. (As if I needed yet another reminder the distinction between us.) Poor Carter and Lebeau; they've been doing everything they can to make it up to me and Carter doesn't even know that I know. Yet all the time they're ashamed to look me in the eye. They've been made to feel bad for something they didn't even do. And all they're doing with their little favors - besides getting in the way - is reminding me of the very difference we're all trying to ignore._

_I think the real problem is that I allowed myself to get complacent. For a little while, working with these four loonies, I'd started to believe that things would eventually get better back in the real world. That things would change after the war because enough people would have be forced to look at our abilities and maybe even managed to be grateful for our contributions._

_But all I know now is that I'm angry. I'm angry at Mitchell and Long. I'm angry at Newkirk for getting himself into trouble over me. I'm angry that he had reason to. I'm even angry at myself. Partly for my irrational resentment towards my friends simply because they're white, but also - sadly - for letting my guard down._

_I just don't know anymore. Right now, I think I've lost any real hope that my people will ever be taken as equal by more than a few good individuals. The worst of it is, though, that even with them, we might not be left alone to be friends without interference from bigots like Mitchell and Long. //  
_

Hogan exhaled nosily, closing his eyes as if in pain. _What did you think - that it would all be as simple as making him your second-in-command? _he asked himself. _That as long as you set a good example and kept the men in line, they__'__d all accept him?_

No, but he had assumed he could deal with the problem when it came up. Of course, he had _also_ assumed he would know about it when it did. Not that he had expected Kinch to come running to him every time someone called him a bad name; he knew the man. He knew Kinch could handle the little things without letting them get to him. And Kinch had his pride. Hogan was sure that Kinch not only wouldn't expect his constant butting in, he wouldn't want it. But couldn't Kinch have confided in him if he was feeling such a crisis of hope as this?

And how was it making Kinch feel in relation to the four of them? _"__All it__'__s doing is reminding me of the very difference we're trying to forget,__"_he'd written. Hogan desperately wanted to believe that Kinch's feeling had been temporary, but being forced together with white men and developing deep friendships with them was more than likely a completely new experience for him, one that was probably utterly unexpected. It's one thing to be sure of who you are, but crossing such an entrenched barrier as this… who mightn't feel a little unsure?

It worried Hogan and for the first time he started to follow the diary day by day instead of skimming it randomly. Only a few days after the events with Mitchell and Long, Hogan came across an entry describing Newkirk and Lebeau returning from a pick-up mission. It was something that didn't alleviate his fears at all.

_// I think they understand the waiting. I mean, at one time or another, we've all been there. A few months ago, when Carter and Lebeau went out to pick up the fake diamonds that we used to bribe Hegel, I swear, Newkirk was asking the Colonel and I what time it was every five or ten minutes until they got back. So yeah, they get that. I might do it the most often, but we've all been through it._

_But I don't know if they really understand the other part. The part where night after night I watch them come back wound up and bouncing off each like pin balls, almost drunk on triumph and adrenalin. Either that or shakily re-hashing their desperate escapes from yet another danger as they stand there, huddled together in the tunnel right under the emergency entrance. They're there, panting and shivering, and I tell myself that I should be grateful that I wasn't out there with them. That is, until I see that matching look of amazement, of mutual congratulations, slowly dawning on their faces. The way they pat each other on the back, breathlessly laughing while all the while telling one another to get a hold of themselves. All the signs that just scream out, "We did it - we survived another one!" Only I'm not part of the "we". I'm the one holding out their uniforms or a cup of coffee._

_Maybe that's too harsh. The fault isn't theirs. I know how they feel. And I know that I'd be going out in a heartbeat if color wasn't an issue. I'll admit sometimes I even do feel grateful; not to be spared the risk or the work, but only because I've never enjoyed the idea of acting out a part or deceiving people. I can live with it over the phone or the radio, but it's a different kettle of fish to have to do it in person._

_And it's not as if I haven't had some of those triumphant moments myself. It's just that they're fewer and farther between. There have been times too, when one or more of them were kept back here with me. But for them that's only the way the Colonel hands out assignments and not because theycan't go on a specific job. So, more often than not, I'm the one patiently listening as they try to explain excitedly what it was like to fool the enemy right to their faces. I know that they're doing more than trying to blow off steam, that they're trying to make me feel included. But whether they're doing it consciously or unconsciously, in the end it doesn't really matter. It always comes down to "you had to be there"._

_As for the holding out uniforms or a cup of hot coffee, they've never demanded that, or even asked. I do it for them the same way they do it for me, or for each other. It's only there are times when I can't help remembering what a female friend in London once said to me about working with all men: "No matter what qualifications I've got, as far as they're concerned, I'm still only there to fetch the bloody tea." I know the guys aren't like that - they're not even within shouting distance of that - but being the one who is standing apart and holding out the hot drink most of the time, I find I can't escape the occasional stab of resentment at how things are._

_But the thing is, since I can't blame or make a legitimate complaint to any particular person, I'm left with no way of solving the problem. Maybe that's what's got me so down tonight._

_Or maybe it's nothing more than picturing our future reunions, where we'll all get together and they'll start saying "remember when" and I won't. //_

Hogan silently put Kinch's diary back in the cabinet with the others and made his way up top. Some things he just couldn't do anything about.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Hogan spat out a pungent oath as the blade nicked his chin. _Oh, for Pete's sake! Watch what you're doing. You're surrounded by thousands of Germans - you sure as heck don't need to cut your own damn throat._

However, as he rinsed the shaving cream off of his face and saw to the cut, his mind naturally turned back to the same mental impasse he'd been banging his head against the whole morning: how to talk to Kinch without letting on he'd invaded his friend's privacy.

Did Kinch even need to talk? Hogan wasn't sure, but he did know it wasn't only his duty as CO that made him want to ensure things were running smoothly - Kinch was his friend, after all. They all were.

But, on the other hand, wouldn't letting his men know what he'd done only embarrass them? Which would probably only lead to unwanted disruptions. Sure, they were all adults here, but when your very lives depended on a tight rapport…

Hogan sighed and tossed his ragged towel next to the basin of foamy water. Whatever it was he'd been looking for, he reflected, he hadn't found it. He told himself he'd give it up as a lost cause and burn the notebooks that night after his men had gone to sleep.

For the rest of the day though - as he examined a report from the underground Kinch had copied out, as he argued with Klink for an extra hour of electricity, as he checked on the men in Barracks Seven where a case of the flu had been making the rounds - he simply couldn't shake the feeling that he was giving up too soon.

----

Not unexpectedly, most of what Lebeau wrote about involved cooking: how the meal turned out, how he hated to cook for the Germans, the struggle to get even the most basic ingredients, his passionate grief for his lost pre-war knives and saucepans, how he was surrounded by philistines who asked for such barbaric items as peanut butter or ketchup…

Hogan stopped reading every line and went back to skimming through the pages.

--

_No! No! No! I will not do it anymore! I want to fight for France, not be shoved into boxes and dumb waiters and miniature tanks! But because I am short, they think it is all right. It is a joke to them! What does it matter to them that Carter could have blown me up with his stupid table decorations! And him and his imbecile joke yesterday - about coming out in a "box" when Colonel Hogan ordered me to hide in one. Wait and see if he ever gets any of my strudel again!_

_However, it is that Colonel Hogan asks me that is painful. He knows I will not refuse, but does he not understand how insulting it is to me?_

_But why should he? He has not had a lifetime of listening to idiotic jokes. Or of people dismissing him because they think that, because a person is short, he cannot stand like a man. That he cannot fight, but only hide away in boxes or sneak around like a mouse._

_Oh, but the Colonel always has a good reason, does he not? He is always quick to tell me that I am fighting the Boche "in my own way". I try to believe him, but I am tired of this. I begin to think he does not bother to find other plans because he does not see me in any role but this. (1)_

--

Hogan groaned and leaned back on the cot to rest his back against the wall of the radio room. _Not another one, _he grumbled. _I've had it_. _I can sympathize with Lebeau thinking I don't take him seriously, but I'm not in charge of the mutual appreciation society around here, for heaven's sake!_

Grousing to himself about how he couldn't always be worrying how his men were taking his orders, he swiftly turned to another page in hopes Lebeau had only been in a bad mood, and that personal humiliation wasn't yet another thing he was going to have to confront his men about.

--

_How could Colonel Hogan have ordered me to dance with Hochstetter?_

--

Hogan rolled his eyes. _Fabulous. Just fabulous_. He kept reading.

--

_But I was lucky - the Colonel did not truly expect me to teach the Major. These Gestapo, they have no soul - it is impossible they could ever learn something that is beautiful. However, the Colonel only needed Hochstetter out of the way so he could impersonate him and take the information on us away from the double agent. (And, of course, enjoy some time with Lily, yes? Spies do not live by deception alone.)_

_I think Fate though, must love Colonel Hogan very much. Lily's date with Hochstetter is what was supposed to keep Klink away, but once Burkhalter took care of Hochstetter, what was to keep the Kommandant from going to Lily's club? Why would the Colonel have arranged this? It was only Burkhalter wanting to play chess with Klink that kept him away, and how could Colonel Hogan have known that, for once, Burkhalter would want the company of Klink?_

--

Hogan was astonished - Lebeau was right. The whole reason he'd had Lily make the date with Hochstetter was to get Klink to stay away from the club. But once he'd stymied Hochstetter, Klink had been left free. Had he planned anything for Klink once the Major had been out of the picture? He couldn't remember now. _Surely I must have had some idea! _Hogan thought. _There's no way I could have counted on old fatso actually wanting to be around Klink all evening._

Sipping a cup of cold coffee - something that was becoming a nightly tradition - he puzzled over the matter for a few moments. It raised an interesting, but slightly disturbing, question. Had he had a back up plan for dealing with Klink, or had he simply trusted to his working better under pressure? To that, and luck. Was it possible that he was getting too complacent when it came to the Bald Eagle?

Instead of thinking on it further though, he put his coffee back down and turned back to the pages more towards the middle. He'd come back to it - and soon - but for right now, it was just too early in the morning to be dwelling on Klink when he didn't have to.

--

_Colonel Hogan gave away Baby to Rumplestiltskin. He apologized to me, and it is better Baby has a home away from this awful place, but I wish he could have asked._

_But it is all the fault of the Boche! Having a dog - it made this place easier to bear. Having compassion for a creature that needs you is to have a heart, and this is something the Nazis know nothing about! They took away the dogs and the cats of little Jewish children even before taking away the little ones themselves, all in order to be as cruel as they could. They do not want anyone to show compassion to anyone - it shows what small-minded monsters they are in comparison._

--

Something sparked in Hogan's mind and he re-read the same passage again. Instinct was telling him there was something important here… but what? A third read through and it was lost, dancing elusively out of his grasp before he could even get close.

Shaking off the annoyance, he went onto something new.

--

_It is four weeks and I have not had a letter from my uncle Phillippe. Everyday now I am watching for Schultz to bring the mail, but even when he does have some, there is nothing for me from my family._

_Is my uncle safe? Have the Boche taken him? His last letter said there were some in the village. It is hard not knowing. Everyday that goes by I am more and more worried. I try to tell myself the Germans will want nothing from an old man, but how can I believe this when I see them dragging their own people away from their homes? Old, young, it does not matter to the Nazis. How can I have any hope that my uncle, who is not a German, will be safe?_

_My cousins as well - I have not heard from them since May. Are they still in the Riviera? Why have they not written? They do not understand what it is to be trapped here and not be able to go and search for your loved ones. They cannot know how badly I need to hear from them so that I don't run through the tunnels and straight to France to make sure they are free._

_And there is Claude. Never will I forgive myself for talking to those Gestapo women! Colonel Hogan said the underground was able to get him away, but why have I not heard from him? Has he been captured after all? Perhaps he has gotten away but has not forgiven me. That is the answer I hope for, but it does not make sense since he would not have been told who it was who betrayed him._

_I have never felt so trapped as I have for this last month. I am helpless here; I want to go home so that, if I ever grow worried about my family and friends, I can simply go and assure myself that they are well. It is too much to have to wait and do nothing._

_But, if I leave, how could I know that my friends here are safe?_

--

Hogan put Lebeau's diary down gently beside him on the cot. Picking up his coffee, he quietly finished it off as he tried to imagine getting through day after day in this cesspit while not knowing where his family was. That kind of hell was almost too much too comprehend.

Hogan was tired now. More tired than even a week of late nights could account for. He wearily started thumbing through Newkirk's diary, but in his heart he was done. He no longer had any real hopes of finding what he was looking for and come morning, he'd burn the notebooks.

--

_That bloody Klink! I had to listen to his flaming acceptance speech while I was pretending to be the Colonel with a toothache. Blimey! Is this what the Colonel has to go through all the time? That old wind bag forever banging on about his perfect record and kissing up to every daft bugger with a red stripe on his trousers? Well, better him than me, that's all I can say! I'd go spare listening to that every day. The way old Klink could bore a person to sleep, I'd say he's missed his calling as a hypnotist._

_But oh, that Leslie Smythe Beddoes! Cor, what a stunner! I can tell why the Colonel did an about face at the thought of doing her in. Blonde, trim little figure, graceful legs, sultry lips - had the whole blooming package, she did. Gave me a right shock when the Colonel told us she was the one we were to knock off. Why's a pretty bird like that got to be a Nazi? Not only a Nazi, but a bleeding defector to boot. Can you imagine: she gave up her own people - MY own people - for this lot! Turns my stomach to even think about her now. Like biting into a nice, juicy bit of fruit and finding it's all rotten inside._

_If you ask me though, there was something strange about this whole business all together. I think the Jerries must've had a traitor on their own side. Otherwise, it's a bit of an odd coincidence that the very minute London wants us to go after a defector who's just joined the German Propaganda Ministry, that exact same Ministry shows up with her in tow practically in our front door yard, all to give that silly old sod Klink an award. Now tell me there's nothing strange going on there!_

--

Hogan had chuckled at Newkirk's Klink the hypnotist comment, but what really made him smile was that Newkirk had picked up coincidence of Klink's award as well. He knew Kinch had speculated on it a bit, but until now Hogan hadn't realized that any of the others had seen it.

But that was Newkirk down to a tee, wasn't it? What questions his intelligence didn't raise, general suspicion did. Of all his men, Newkirk was the one mostly likely to look a gift horse in the mouth.

--

_Flipping heck, but you'd hardly credit the things Colonel Hogan pulls sometimes, even on us. We'd only just got fifteen prisoners out of here, plus got rid of the Major from Stalag 5 who was blackmailing Klink, and then the next thing you know, the governor's wheedling us into creating a diversion ("at least two hours long" yet!) all so's he can have a bit of a snog with Klink's girlfriend. Very nice indeed!_

_And talk about the devil's own luck! Not only is she not one of our contacts, she's been dating Klink for a month now. Yet the governor simply waltzes right in there, nice as you please, and starts kissing her. How was he to know how she'd react? I reckon it stands to reason she might've wanted to get away from that old beggar Klink, but that doesn't make her a disloyal Kraut who's going to want a prisoner of war jumping on her the very second the stupid sod is out of the room. God's honest truth - only our bleeding Colonel would have enough of an ego to believe there was no risk in that._

_And how smart is it to let on that we manipulate the Kommandant for our own purposes? We're supposed to be cowed prisoners, but here we're playing games with him just to get our randy CO a few hours with a pretty bird. Now what's to stop that from getting about? You have to know she's going to tell all her chums about it. And with the way they all go about with the German officers, it's bound to get to the ear of someone important sooner or later. I mean, blimey, calling Klink a man may be taking undue liberties with the language, but do we really need to be handing out such flaming proof he's a stupid arse?_

--

Someone watching him might have seen his jaw tighten, but whatever Hogan thought about Newkirk's observations, he quickly pushed to the side. However, the smile he'd gotten from the last entry was definitely gone.

--

_Got a letter from Mavis today. Dad's in the hospital again with his liver. Mavis says she's been going round on her half days, and now she's hinting for me to drop him a line. If I was home, no doubt she'd be pestering me to stop in at the hospital with a bunch of flaming grapes. I can just hear her now: "We could at least make a show of being a proper family, Peter," she'd say._

_I know what she's really after though - for me to write the old bugger and tell him to stop drinking. I don't know how many times I've told her it won't make a spot of difference, but she still keeps hoping. The last night I saw him, I told the stupid sod to cut back on the drink, and what good did that do? So what does she think a letter's going to do when he won't listen even when you're staring him right in the face?_

_Staring him in the face - what am I on about? He didn't even look at me that night. My last night there, maybe even the last night he'd ever see me, and he couldn't be bothered. Just kept laughing away and calling for another pint. So I said it again. "You want to be careful," I told him. "You've been in and out of hospital how many times now? One of these days it'll be a one way trip."_

_That's when he told me, "You're just like your mother. Miserable old cow was forever trying to stop me having a good time."_

_I turned my back on him then. He was never one for listening. Yet it's always the same song and dance once he's in trouble: curses the entire human race like what was happening to him is everyone's fault but his. The way he tells it, you'd think the whole flipping world had been conspiring against him since the day he was born. But him dragging Mum into it… well, that put an end to it for me, as far as trying to get him to see sense went. There was no call for that._

_It was never the drink that was the real problem in any case, was it now? I've seen how it is with him. He might enjoy his pint, but it's never had hold of him the way it does with some. Could stop any time he had a mind too; I've seen him do it if there's enough of something in it for him. He won't stop now though because he refuses to see that it's what's doing him in, no matter how many times Mavis and I and the doctor have tried to pound it into him. He'll do what he wants to do, without a thought to anyone else._

_But our Mavis - she doesn't see that. She's still down to his place every Sunday she can manage, cooking him a nice meal and doing his wash. As far as he's concerned though, her picking up after him is only his bloody due as her father. The old layabout doesn't give a moment's thought as to how hard she's slaving herself the rest of the week. And if he makes a time over her at all, it's only to play at being King of the bleeding Castle in front of all his mates. I don't know why she does it. I'd always credited her with more sense - she's going to play herself out if she's not careful._

_Far as I'm concerned, I hope the worthless old bastard kicks up his traces before she really sees that he doesn't give a toss for her._

--

Hogan softly drummed his right fingers against his thigh as he looked at what he'd just read.

_Explains a lot, doesn't it? _he found himself thinking.

--

_The post came today. Only the one from Mavis, and it wasn't exactly what you'd call cheery._

_She didn't go into any great details - she wouldn't, she's not one to want to bring a bloke down - but she did go so far to say there was some bombing the other night and that, when she'd walked round to our old street, she'd had a bit of a shock. Nothing more than that, simply "a bit of a shock", but I can imagine it, can't I? It's not like I haven't seen it often enough: the way the walls bulge and crumble, the gaping windows, the broken chimneys, the people left stumbling around and crying with white faces hidden under layers of soot._

_In any case, I was thinking on all that this afternoon when that daft Carter started in about his bombs again. I just couldn't help it - I tore into him something fierce. I wanted to break his sodding jaw for him! I almost could have - the way the stupid, bloody fool kept rabbitting on. They're bombing my home, but to him explosives are nothing more than something to play with. Ned Springer down the road from us - seven years old and he saw his whole family killed. Mavis wrote the other week the poor little mite still can't talk but in fits and stutters. And then there's Carter getting all in a lather about blowing up some refinery! You'd have thought Father Christmas put Betty Grable in his stocking, the way he kept on about it._

_The Colonel's ordered me to apologize, but I can't bring myself to yet. I simply don't know how one person can be so bloody insensitive!_

--

_Aw hell, is that why he'd ripped into Carter that day? _Hogan groaned. _Why didn't he say something? I'm not that damn inapproachable, _he protested to himself. _He could have said something. They ALL could have said something._

Annoyed, Hogan realized that that was what his men were using these notebooks for: so they wouldn't have to say anything. So that they could let off steam, but not lose their pride. Or their privacy. _But…_

_But what? _his conscience suddenly argued. _Do you want to be their Father Confessor? Or their agony Aunt?_

He rolled his eyes ceiling ward and crossed his arms over his chest. _In all honesty, no. But they should know -_

_Know what? That you want to be camp chaplain too?_

_No, of course not. But I AM their friend, as well as their CO. I feel bad about not helping them when I could. Hell, I feel bad for not even noticing when they were having problems._

_Be honest - what you feel is piqued that they didn't feel comfortable enough to confide in you. But that's wrong. They would have, if the problem had been big enough. You know that. Your problem is that you're getting hammered by half a dozen problems all at once. A bad day here, a bad day there… they're grown ups - whatever problems they had they've already gotten over. All by themselves. In some cases, a year ago or more. Is your ego so big you think nothing gets solved without your stepping in?_

Hogan found himself nearly laughing out loud. It was pretty egotistical now that he thought about it. And certainly, stepping in and ordering Newkirk to apologize to Carter hadn't been that fair to Newkirk, so what did he know?

No, looking at the whole thing objectively, Hogan had to accept that if any problem got big enough to affect the team, he'd notice it. As for anything else… well, while as a friend he might feel bad about being insensitive, or for having missed the opportunities to help members of his team through a particular rough time, he realized he shouldn't underestimate their abilities to deal with things themselves.

Hogan checked his watch - still well over an hour to roll call - and got himself another cup of coffee. _Just a little more_, he thought.

--

_I don't know how to write this. I really don't. Where's a person supposed to start when trying to explain all of the things what goes on in this country?_

--

Hogan slowly sat up straighter on the cot as the words sank in before his increasingly transfixed eyes. He turned the page, and then the next, as the entry went on, describing one day last January.

He had it!

* * *

_1) I need to ask for your indulgence here. Lebeau's diary would obviously be in French, and there were a few hints on the show that suggested Hogan didn't know any - or at least very little - of the language. But, after three or four years around Lebeau and Tiger, he could have learned, right? _


End file.
